


I Shall Not Want

by domesticadventures



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Castiel/Dean Winchester in the Bunker, Depression, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 06:03:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3680697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/domesticadventures/pseuds/domesticadventures
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His grace is burning out, and the wasteland it leaves inside him becomes an echo chamber for all the memories, all the fear and doubt and self-loathing he's collected over the years. Things said and done hound him on endless repeat until he's convinced they’ll break through his skin and fill the silence of the bunker.</p><p>His head is killing him, and he sits hunched over an open book, not really reading, just digging his fingers into his skull and praying nothing slips through the cracks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set ambiguously during season 9 or 10 and ignoring the existence of basically every major plot point at my convenience.
> 
> Endless gratitude to [Cecilia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/propinquitous), without whom this fic wouldn't exist <3 Please, please listen to [the playlist for this fic](http://femmechester.tumblr.com/post/120882340307/) she created. It's the absolute perfect mix of melancholy and hope and longing, with gorgeous cover art to boot.

His grace is burning out, and the wasteland it leaves inside him becomes an echo chamber for all the memories, all the fear and doubt and self-loathing he's collected over the years. Things said and done hound him on endless repeat until he's convinced they’ll break through his skin and fill the silence of the bunker.

His head is killing him, and he sits hunched over an open book, not really reading, just digging his fingers into his skull and praying nothing slips through the cracks.

“You okay, man?” Dean asks, and Cas is ashamed to admit it startles him. There used to be a time when no one could sneak up on him, least of all Dean Winchester. Cas didn’t even know he was in the room.

“He asked me what I am, now,” Cas says, because that memory is the loudest, before he realizes that isolated statement makes sense only to him. “Bartholomew. He asked me what I am.”

“And?”

“I told him I am nothing.”

Dean stares at Cas, then, brow furrowed, like he’s trying to decide what to say to that. Cas can imagine it perfectly, all the words churning about in Dean's head, can imagine him searching hopelessly for the right ones.

Cas wants to say: I told him I am nothing, and some days I fear that's what I am becoming and others I wish that's what I was. But he doesn't know how. He speaks every language that is or has been and he doesn't have the words.

Cas sighs. “I have a headache.”

Dean looks relieved at that, this admission of a concrete ache he knows how to handle. He brings Cas ibuprofen and a glass of water, and when Cas thanks him, Dean smiles.

Cas smiles back. One of them, at least, may as well believe this has solved the problem.

\--

“What happened to him?” Dean asks, after several hours of almost comfortable silence. Cas looks at him quizzically. “Bartholomew,” Dean says, in response to the silent question.

Something churns inside Cas, somewhere deep beneath the surface, and he fights to keep his expression carefully neutral. “I killed him,” Cas says. He tries to feel okay about it, tries to make himself say: He was my enemy and it was justified.

But they were friends, once. Comrades in arms. These are both titles he still assigns to the Winchesters, and how can he justify rescinding one without the other, when the three of them have committed so many sins against one another, have traded them back and forth like casual conversation? Where does he draw the line?

“Oh,” Dean says, and does not ask how Cas feels. They both return to their reading.

_Thank you,_ Cas thinks wryly.

\--

It’s only later that night, when Cas is drunk, that he can’t stop himself from saying it.

“I watched you rake leaves,” he admits, and even before Dean processes his words enough to register his own incredulity, Cas know he's made a mistake. Dean has matched Cas shot for shot, but he realizes with mounting horror that Dean isn’t nearly as drunk as he is. He can’t stop himself, anyway.

“I watched you _rake leaves._ Who _does_ that?” But Cas knows who does that in every story ever, thanks to that wonderful little gift from Metatron. He knows exactly who watches other people from the shadows. Stalkers. Serial killers. Complete and total weirdos. He’s the villain of this piece, and he’s going to die at the end. He would die even if he were the hero, he supposes. He just might have a better time getting there.

Dean is staring at him strangely, lips slightly parted. Out of the corner of his eye, Cas can see Sam glancing back and forth between the two of them, waiting for someone to say something before he decides whether or not to intervene.

“What,” Dean says. Cas feels suddenly ill.

“Okay,” Sam says, standing. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Sam helps Cas to his feet with surprising gentleness, and they leave Dean sitting there to contemplate the empty bottle of scotch.

Cas stumbles his way down the hall, consenting to let himself be half-carried by Sam. He doesn’t have the energy to push him away, to muster up the vitriol it would take to get Sam to let him crumple to the floor and leave him there. He’s done so much, made so many mistakes, playing god, pulling Sam out of hell only halfway, fighting, killing, lying, betraying. He doesn't understand why it should be such a big deal that he's human.

“Because it wasn’t your choice,” Sam says, and that’s when Cas realizes he's been thinking out loud.

Sam would know a thing or two about that, he supposes. About making mistakes, obviously -- the thing with Ruby, the thing with the demon blood, the whole damn apocalypse. But about the other thing, too, the thing where other people make your mistakes for you.

The way the corners of Sam’s mouth turn down, Cas knows he's been keeping inadequate control over his thoughts again. Sam's frown is so exaggerated that it would be comical if it weren’t so goddamn tragic. Here Cas is, not even all the way human yet and already managing to make a mess of it.

Sam pulls back the covers, helps Cas into bed. “It’s okay,” he says, so softly Cas can almost pretend he imagined it.

\--

Cas stays in bed all that day, and the next day, and the next.

Apparently three days is how long it takes for Dean to get tired of people being layabouts, even though they have nothing they absolutely have to do, nowhere they have to be. “You gonna get up soon or what?” he asks, standing in the doorway. He had knocked in the cursory way human parents sometimes do, less a courtesy asking for permission, more warning that they’re entering shortly, invited or not. Dean had not been invited.

“No,” Cas says, not even bothering to roll over.

“Okay?” Dean says, affronted, asking for an explanation Cas doesn’t particularly feel he’s obligated to provide.

The truth is, though, he had been planning to get up. He had been planning to get up three days ago, actually. It’s just taken him this long to work up the motivation. He waits for a few more hours after that to make an appearance, though. He wants to make it clear he got up of his own volition, not as a result of Dean’s nagging.

When he shuffles into the library, he can tell from the way Sam and Dean immediately interrupt their conversation to look up at him that they’ve been talking about him. He may be newly human, but he isn’t stupid.

“Hey, Cas,” Sam says.

“Hey,” Dean echos. “Nice to see you up and about.” There’s not a hint of sarcasm in it, nothing like earlier. He sounds like he means it. He’s been thoroughly chastised by Sam in the interim, Cas is pretty sure. He’s not sure if the thought makes him grateful to Sam or just annoyed with him.

“Good morning,” Cas says, even though it’s partially a lie. He feels like shit. Sam and Dean smile at him like he’s just told a joke. He looks at the clock. It’s just after 8pm. Entirely a lie, then.

“Burgers for breakfast sound good?” Dean asks, but he’s already up and heading to the kitchen before anyone has a chance to respond. How nice, Cas thinks, that the human body’s nearly constant need for food provides such a convenient exit strategy.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sam asks, once Dean is gone. Cas doesn’t know what all _it_ encompasses, exactly, but he’s sure he doesn’t, regardless. He shakes his head, focusing on his hands folded on the table so he doesn’t have to see the sympathetic look Sam is probably giving him. “Okay,” Sam says, picking up a book to read, instead. Cas appreciates that, at least.

Dean reappears with homemade burgers and potato wedges. As they sit eating in silence that’s not exactly companionable and not exactly not, Cas thinks it’s pretty good, as far as apologies go. He thinks maybe he could be convinced to rethink his opinion on Sam giving Dean a talking to.

When they’re finished, Sam clears the table and takes the plates to go do the dishes.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Dean says, once Sam is out of earshot. The sentiment is nice enough, but mostly Cas wishes he agreed. It’s not that he doesn’t want to be in the bunker, exactly. He certainly doesn’t want to be somewhere else instead, not on earth or in heaven or any of the places in between. He simply doesn’t want to _be,_ doesn’t want to exist at this exact moment because he’s so tired and it sounds like it would be so, so much easier to just...not. He’s in the first place he would choose to be if he had a choice, with his friends, his own room, his favorite food. He doesn’t understand why he’s not happy.

He’s glad someone wants him here, though, even if it’s not himself. Maybe that will be enough.

Cas nods, because Dean is looking at him like he expects some sort of answer. “Thank you,” Cas says. “And for the food,” he adds, so Dean can’t mistake his meaning.

“Yeah,” Dean says, just barely smiling, but smiling nonetheless. “Yeah, just, anything you need, just let me know.”

Cas thinks of three days spent in bed, of the way his neck and back and knees all ache in strange ways. “More pillows would be nice,” he says.

“Sure thing,” Dean says, and then his eyes light up. “And if you like pillows, just wait til you feel the memory foam.”

\--

Sam and Dean start teaching Cas how to be a hunter. They don’t ask if he wants to be a hunter, if maybe he hasn’t had enough killing to last more than one lifetime. They just assume. Unsurprising, given it’s all they’ve ever known, but it tires him all the same.

So some days he does nothing, just lays in bed or sits on the couch or stares into space in the library, refusing to be roused, but other days, he learns.

He’ll never forget the feel of a blade in his hand, never unlearn how to wield one after millennia worth of memory that’s more than muscle deep. Dean brings him into this century, teaching him to make salt rounds and silver bullets, to load guns and fire them, to clean them down and put them back together again.

Dean narrates the lessons, mixes instructions with advice. Dean says, pour in exactly this much salt, and bring more than you think you’ll need for every hunt, bring salt rounds even if you think it’s a werewolf, bring silver bullets even if you think it’s a ghost, just in case, because you never know. He says, aim for the chest because it’s a bigger target than the head, especially when you’re moving or it’s moving, and when someone or something is aiming at you, turn sideways, crouch down, make yourself as small a target as possible, do your best to be invisible. He says, take good care of your weapons because it might be the difference between life and death, and always dress in layers no matter how hot it is so you always have something to peel off and press against a wound, because sometimes that’ll be all you have to stop the bleeding, because sometimes that might be the difference, too.

Sam teaches him to research. The online kind, that is, because the library Cas can handle. It’s hard to be led astray when everything available for perusal has already been curated by the Men of Letters, has been carefully vetted and organized and is just waiting to be read. With the internet, Cas learns, you have to be able to sort out the bullshit. There are sites with legitimate lore, but there are far more with urban legends, attention-seekers, flat-out lies.

There are other sites, too, ones that aren’t about monsters but are no less valuable. Sam teaches Cas how to use Google Maps, shows him YouTube and Wikipedia. He says, before you start a hunt, find out where all the hospitals in a town are, find out the first place you can run if something goes wrong. He says, sometimes your car will break down and sometimes you will break down and sometimes you can find out how to fix it step by step with a soothing voiceover. He says, sometimes you’ll need an escape from it all, and the internet can provide you with that, too. He says, here is the collective knowledge of humanity, right at your fingertips, in all of its glory and with all of its flaws and biases.

On the days Cas has the motivation to focus, they sit in the library for hours on end, Dean bringing them snacks, forcing them to take breaks for dinner. Cas tries to remember to thank him, to tell him the food is delicious, to make him feel appreciated. To make up for all the days where he doesn’t.

“You mean that stuff, right?” Sam asks him one day, when the noises coming from the kitchen assure him Dean is far out of earshot. Cas is inclined to be offended by the insinuation at first, but Sam doesn’t seem accusatory, just curious, maybe concerned.

“Of course,” he says, and tries not to sound annoyed.

It seems to be good enough for Sam. “All right,” he says. “Okay. Good. Just wanted to make sure, because, you know, it’s good for him to hear it. I think he needs to hear it, sometimes, you know?”

“Yes,” Cas says, quietly. “I know.”

After a while, Sam leaves Cas to his own devices, so he begins exploring on his own. That’s how he finds WebMD. Dean catches him looking at it, one day, hunched over Sam’s laptop, frowning at the screen.

“I think I have lupus,” Cas says, by which he means he typed “dry eyes, fatigue, joint pain, headaches, shortness of breath” into WebMD and WebMD suggested he might have, amongst about a hundred other things, lupus.

Dean rolls his eyes. “It’s not lupus,” he says. “It’s never lupus.”

Cas flicks a glance at Dean before looking back at the screen, scowling. “I get that reference. That was a running joke, Dean, and I don’t think this is funny. Also, that show is medically unsound, not to mention problematic in its portrayal of--”

Dean interrupts him with a dramatic sigh. “I know, Cas,” he says, as though he’s explaining something to a small child. As though Cas is overreacting. “But that WebMD shit will basically tell you you’re dying no matter what you plug into it. Aches, pains, all kinds of stuff you can’t explain...that shit just happens, sometimes.” He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is gentler. Placating. “You’re not dying, man, you’re just human.”

Cas does not particularly want to be placated. “If I’m human,” he says, “I’m dying by definition.” To his own surprise, he manages to say it more crankily than seriously, because he’s not really focusing on his own mortality today, not at this particular moment.

Dean rolls his eyes again. “Fine, but you’re not dying _of lupus,_ I promise.” Cas _hmphs_ his agreement. He doesn’t really think he has lupus. He just wanted to hear someone else tell him there’s nothing wrong with him, he supposes. As if hearing it would make him start to believe it.

There’s a lesson in all this, though, he knows, and the lesson is that WebMD is bullshit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In retrospect, he supposes he knew something was off and simply didn’t want to admit it to himself. Hindsight is 20/20, he thinks. It’s a human phrase he’s learned means something like _everything is clearer once you’re past it._ To him, though, it sounds different; it sounds like saying _some things are exactly as far away as they appear._

Despite all the training, none of them seems particularly eager to get back to hunting.

That is, until, one day, seemingly out of the blue, Sam announces he’s going to take care of a quick salt and burn over on the east coast. Cas finds out sooner than he’s supposed to, pauses out of sight around a corner and listens to Sam and Dean talking. He’s not trying to sneak up on them, not intending to eavesdrop. He’s just trying to cultivate a habit of treading lightly.

“What’s the rush?” Dean is asking, sounding legitimately confused about Sam’s decision to interrupt what seems to have become a vaguely domestic break from their usual lives to get back into the swing of things.

“There’s no rush, Dean,” Sam says, “I’m just going to go stir crazy if I don’t get out every now and then. It’ll be a piece of cake, I swear. I’ll call to check in or whatever, but I need this.”

“Well, I’m coming with you, then,” Dean says, but he already sounds indecisive.

“Dean.” He can picture the exact look on Sam’s face, the raised eyebrow that says _you know I’m right, just accept it._ “I’ll be fine. Just stay here with Cas. He’s not ready.”

“Not ready to hunt?” Dean asks, sounding almost offended on Cas’ behalf. He’s weirdly grateful for that. “Or not ready to stay here by himself?” That part, though. He’s not sure what that means, doesn’t know how he should feel about it. Why shouldn’t he be fine here by himself, he wonders? But another part of him asks: How could you possibly be?

“Both,” Sam says, “but he needs you, regardless.”

Dean scoffs, but he doesn’t argue. Cas wishes they would actually consult him rather than making assumptions about how he feels, rather than deciding for themselves what’s best for him, but he also knows he can’t exactly deny any of what’s being said. He shuffles back to his room, quietly, so they won’t know he had been listening in.

Sam shows up in his doorway a few minutes later. The door is wide open, but Sam knocks on the frame anyway, waits for Cas to say “Come in, Sam” before he enters. Even then, he remains standing, doesn’t impose upon Cas or his space any more than he absolutely has to. Cas is trying to hang onto his lingering annoyance, but he can already feel it dissipating. He isn’t sure why he’s trying so hard to hold onto it, anyway.

“So,” Sam says, clearing his throat. “I’m gonna head out for a bit, take care of a quick hunt out east. And I just wanted to, uh.” He pauses, like he’s trying to think what to say, like he’s not sure how best to tell Cas he’s worried Cas is too helpless and pathetic to survive a few days without his help. “I just. I know you’re not in a great place right now. But Dean needs you, you know? He needs your help, too, and I know it’s a fucking fight to get him to accept it sometimes, but. Uh. I don’t really know how to say this. Just take care of yourself, all right? And try not to let Dean force feed you too many hamburgers.”

“I understand,” Cas says, even though he doesn’t, really. “I’ll try,” he adds, even though he’s not sure he will.

\--

Cas thinks, at first, that nothing much will change while Sam is gone. He’s been in the bunker long enough now that he doesn’t feel entirely lost in it, even if he doesn’t feel exactly comfortable, either.

The first day isn’t so bad. They just keep on with their routine, passing time reading, relaxing, watching TV. Dean cooks, meatloaf and mashed potatoes, a side of green beans in Sam’s honor. Sam checks in as promised to let them know he’s a third of the way to Vermont and is stopping to stay the night in Illinois, and they exchange pleasantries and hang up and Cas thinks, this is going to be okay.

The next two days are all right, too, with Sam driving. There are risks on the road, of course, Cas knows. The internet has taught him that the most dangerous part of flying is the drive to the airport. He’s read about the lighted signs above the roads in Texas keeping tally of the body count, a constant reminder of the danger of motor vehicles. He supposes the threat seems rather distant when so many people you know have died, and none of them in car accidents.

But then the fourth day comes, and the fifth, and the sixth, and with each one Dean is more on edge as he waits for Sam to call. He’s terse with Cas, avoids conversation and gives one-word answers whenever possible. He pulls his phone from his pocket, sets it on the table, stares at it out of the corner of his eye. He starts typing texts and then thinks better of it. Cas counts them, for a while, the number of Dean’s aborted messages to Sam. He loses track somewhere in the fifties.

Dean calms down for a while, though, after the phone rings. After he hears Sam is still okay, still alive, not been killed by vehicular manslaughter or otherwise. Cas gets a few hours each day where Dean will talk to him, try to convince him to watch movies to experience them firsthand, sit with him on the couch in companionable silence.

It gets worse after the first call that comes in the morning, the one where Sam announces he’s been snowed in. There are no calm periods at all, after that.

Cas thinks of what Sam said, and he watches Dean sit with his fingers tapping an erratic rhythm on the tabletop, watches him bounce his legs as he sits on the couch, notices the way the food is sometimes a little burnt or a little undercooked or a little strangely seasoned. He tries to be a calming presence. He doesn’t say anything about the food. He doesn’t try to engage Dean in conversation, just makes casual remarks that don’t require a response. He doesn’t try to cook, but he’ll bring Dean whatever he’s craving at the moment, coffee or junk food or booze. He cleans up after meals without being asked, he does the laundry, he dusts the shelves. He tries everything he can think of and nothing seems to make the least bit of difference. It’s exhausting. He’s exhausted. He thinks of what Sam said, and he wonders what to do.

It makes him nervous, Dean being nervous. It sets him on edge. And so it’s half out of concern and half out of selfishness when he finally works up the nerve to sit next to Dean, to rest a hand on Dean’s knee, forcing him to stillness.

“What do you need from me?” Cas asks.

Dean jerks away as though he’s been burned. “Jesus, Cas,” he says. “Nothing.”

Cas stops trying, after that. He lets them both be nervous and unhappy. It’s easier.

When Sam finally returns from his trip, it’s only a few days later than initially anticipated. He strolls back into the bunker casually, bag slung over his shoulder. He drops it down on the living room floor and stretches out on the couch, and everything about him gives Cas the impression he was in no great hurry. Like there was no reason to rush. Objectively, there wasn’t, Cas thinks, so he shouldn’t be able to blame him. He kind of does, though. Kind of blames Sam for the past two weeks of debilitating helplessness.

He considers saying something, but before he can decide exactly what, Sam says, “I picked up some souvenirs.”

Sam gives Dean a gorgeous hand-forged knife, the metal an irregular mix of shades of gray, and Dean marvels at the way it catches the light. He holds it and he doesn’t tap his fingers or his feet. He looks at it and sits perfectly still and says, “Thanks, Sam.” Like he means it. Like the past two weeks have been erased, in that moment, because Sam is back and Sam thought of Dean while he was away, Sam got something for him on his trip, like a promise he’ll always come back.

That’s what was needed to defuse the situation, Cas thinks. Not anything he could have done. Only something Sam could have. He’s infuriated by the simplicity of it.

Sam is here now, but Cas is still bitter about his absence.

Dean wanders off to test his new knife, and Sam hands Cas a gift like a peace offering. He could refuse it, he thinks, now that Dean is out of the room. But what good would it do.

Cas peels back the paper to find Sam has gotten him a handmade leather-bound book, and he’s grateful in spite of himself. He holds it to his face, breathes in the fantastic mix of smells.

“I figured you could use an official hunter’s journal, now that you’re all trained up,” Sam says, but then he pauses, like maybe he’s remembering what he said before he left. “I mean, obviously you can use it for whatever you want, though. To help you remember important stuff or whatever.” Cas wonders if Sam can sense it, the way what he is or was seems like it’s shrinking down to fit into the limitations of his new form. Contracting, squeezing things out.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Sam continues, as Cas opens the journal to examine the writing on the first page, “but I wrote some stuff in it for you, just some dates I thought you might want to remember. Dean’s birthday, and the, uh...the anniversary of our mom’s death. Stuff like that. You should know that on some days, Dean is...he’s worse, some days in particular. You deserve to know.”

Cas understands that. He gets what Sam is saying, but he can’t think about it right now, can’t dwell on it at this particular moment, after so many days that have been worse than whatever tentative baseline they had established, so he reads the list of dates instead. “What about your birthday?” Cas asks.

“Oh,” Sam says. He looks surprised that he forgot. Or maybe surprised that Cas noticed. “Right, right, yeah,” he says, and when he holds out his hand, Cas passes him the journal so he can add a line at the bottom.

It was selfish, Cas thinks, for Sam to leave Dean here without him, to leave Dean unprepared. Even so, in that moment, Sam bent over, scrawling out his own birthday below all the other dates he deemed more important, Cas thinks, how like Sam, to think of everyone but himself.

It’s strange, feeling so many things about Sam all at once. It makes him very, very tired.

\--

Cas is no less tired on the day Sam says he wants to move out. He watches, exhausted, as Sam and Dean argue.

Cas thinks back on the past few weeks, the past couple months. He looks back and reevaluates and thinks: Of course. He thinks of the way Sam is so good with the computer, the way Sam went on that solo hunt halfway across the country, the way Sam has nice suits for job interviews. He wonders what he would find if he researched the places Sam could have trekked off to on his trip, if they would have stable economies, affordable housing, low crime rates, if they would seem like good places to settle down, build a life, start a family. He’s pretty sure he already knows the answer. He thinks of the way Sam was doing his best to teach Cas to handle cases, to handle Dean, to handle being human, teaching him everything he would need to know in Sam’s absence. Cas feels very stupid, all of a sudden.

In retrospect, he supposes he knew something was off and simply didn’t want to admit it to himself. Hindsight is 20/20, he thinks. It’s a human phrase he’s learned means something like _everything is clearer once you’re past it._ To him, though, it sounds different; it sounds like saying _some things are exactly as far away as they appear._ Sam seems very far away right now.

“This is something I need to do,” Sam is saying, and Cas is trying not to resent him for it. It was comforting to believe he was finally starting to get the hang of things, rather than the truth, which was -- and he thinks this kind of uncharitably, he’ll admit -- really Sam was handling him and Dean both, maintaining the status quo for as long as he could so that he could make a quick, clean break when the time came. No lingering goodbyes, no drawn-out agony.

Cas knows Sam and Dean have both dealt with pain so ingrained in their lives that really, he can’t blame Sam for wanting this to be different. He knows, logically, that this departure isn’t the sudden pain of breaking a bone but rather the sudden pain of snapping one back into place. Still, right now all that seems to matter is something is broken. He’s been duped, and it makes him feel petty and spiteful.

“I don’t understand,” Dean says, and Cas knows he isn’t faring much better. Cas remembers the looks some of his siblings had given him when he had told them he was leaving home, leaving them behind. Dean is looking at Sam that way right now. Like it’s personal. Like it’s a betrayal, not just an unfortunate side effect.

“It’s happening whether you understand or not,” Sam says. He swallows hard around the weight of the words.

“But why are you leaving _now?_ ” Dean asks, practically shouting, definitely begging. “Why now, when things are going so good?” Cas can tell he’s trying so hard to be angry, but his voice is unsteady.

“Dean,” Sam says, trying to keep his cool, keep the volume of his voice down, be the calm to Dean’s storm, and not entirely succeeding. “This isn’t about abandoning you and Cas. This is about me living my life on my own terms, okay? That’s it, Dean, I swear. It’s because things are so good that I feel like I can finally do this.”

Dean stands still and tense for a moment, poised for a fight. Cas waits for him to throw a punch, to stomp off, waits for rage and violence, but instead, Dean takes one slow, deep breath and visibly deflates on the exhale.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Okay.” He trips a little on the second word, and Cas thinks: Here’s another one of those things Dean says where he seems to actually mean the opposite. There’s a growing list, words like “fine” and “great” and “fantastic.” Trying to pin them all down is like putting together a puzzle where the picture is constantly shifting, where the pieces change shape as you place them. It’s frustrating. He wants to tell Dean this, but it doesn’t feel like the right time. He suspects it will never be the right time.

“I’m going to get packed,” Sam says. “I wanna hit the road in the morning.” He says it and then just stands there, like he’s waiting for Dean to respond, even though he hasn’t asked a question. But Dean just nods, and then Sam is walking towards him, clapping a hand on his shoulder, walking away.

Cas wants to stop him. Wants to say, wait, let’s talk this over. Let’s at least have one last meal together, our last supper. The washing of feet, the forgiving of impending betrayals. But then Sam is out of the room and Cas knows it’s too late.

“Dean,” he starts instead, not really knowing what he’s intending to say. “I’m sorry,” maybe, or “I’m here.” He must take too long to decide, because Dean is shrugging before Cas gets the words out, already turning away.

“Whatever,” Dean says, walking towards his room. “It’s cool.”

Cas adds _cool_ to his mental list of words Dean uses that he doesn’t quite understand. They don’t eat dinner together. They stay in their separate spaces, like they’re already preparing for what’s ahead. Cas goes to bed hungry.

\--

When Cas makes his way out of his room the next morning, Dean is nowhere to be seen. Sam is standing on the stairs, leaning against the railing like he’s been waiting for Cas to show up, as if offering him the courtesy of a goodbye will make this any easier.

Sam has a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, and Cas realizes, as he faces Sam on the threshold, that it contains the entirety of Sam’s personal belongings. He was expecting there to be more, somehow. He doesn’t know why. It makes him kind of sad.

“You sure you’re going to be okay here?” Sam asks, and there it is again, that word, _okay,_ and also something unspoken at the end, an implied _with Dean._ This is a thing both Dean and Sam do, another unnecessary little complication when it comes to interpreting their words.

“Yes,” Cas says, “I’ll be fine.” He picks the phrasing intentionally, smiling wryly. Sam misinterprets it, maybe, as he pulls Cas into a hug.

“Well,” Sam says after they disengage, patting Cas on the shoulder awkwardly, “you have my number.”

“Yes,” Cas says, because the questions that are unspoken are too much to consider.

“All right,” Sam says, with a sense of finality. “Take care, man.”

Cas watches Sam drive away. He stands on the stoop for a long time after, wondering if there’s more he should have said, if there’s anything he could have done to keep Sam here even though Dean had already given up. He wonders if it would have mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RE: Sam's gift to Dean, [these are the knives I was picturing](http://www.angerknives.com/).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are a lot of days like that, ones where Dean is too busy thinking about what he’s waiting for to focus on what he’s doing, too preoccupied with Sam’s absence to be bothered to notice Cas’ presence.

Cas doesn’t see Dean for three days. He spends the time reading, napping, watching TV. He snacks on chips, stale crackers, beef jerky. He drinks a lot of water. After that, all that’s left is Sam’s food. He opens and closes the fridge, stares blankly into the cabinets, surveying the whole wheat bread, the organic vegetables, the yogurt in a stressful number of flavors, and thinks, _There is nothing to eat._

He knocks on Dean’s door, gently. Says his name, gently, tentative. A question.

Dean grunts in response, so Cas pushes the door open and says, “Dean, I’m hungry.”

“So order a pizza or something,” Dean says from the bed. Not gentle. Annoyed.

“I don’t know how,” Cas says, because he doesn’t.

“You’re a smart guy, and the internet exists,” Dean says. “Figure it out.”

He finds the only pizza place in Lebanon that delivers and tries to work out the online ordering until he gets frustrated with it because he doesn’t have a last name or an email address, then he calls the number and talks to a real person.

“I would like a pizza,” Cas says, and when the voice on the other end of the line asks him what toppings, he considers for a moment and then says, “All of them.”

And then they ask him for his address and he realizes the flaw in this plan. He tries to convince them to deliver anyway, even offers to give them directions, and he’s in the middle of assuring this complete stranger that “it’s quite easy to find, you can’t miss it” when they hang up on him.

He takes a few minutes to fight down his frustration, then finds himself pushing Dean’s door open again.

“We don’t have an address,” Cas says, and whatever complaint was on Dean’s lips dies, like he hadn’t considered that and might actually feel bad about it, might offer his help, finally.

Instead, Dean says, “I know you know how to drive,” and rolls on his side so he’s facing away. Cas knows a dismissal when he sees one.

Cas doesn’t know what else to do, so he drives into town. It only occurs to him once he gets there that he could have placed an order over the phone for pickup. Since he’s already there, though, he places his order in person and sits awkwardly in one of the small, cold metal chairs, avoiding eye contact with employees and customers alike, while he waits for the pizza to cook. There was a time when he delighted in watching humanity, in the variety, the complexity. Now, though, he looks at the simple pattern of tiles on the restaurant floor. He looks at the box as he pays for the pizza. He stares at the ground as he walks to his car.

Cas drives back to the bunker, sets the pizza down on the table, and goes to get himself a drink. When he comes back from the kitchen, Dean is standing there, presumably lured out of his room by the smell.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says, and for a second his eyes flick up from the box to meet Cas’ own.

“It’s okay,” Cas says, even though he isn’t, really, but he’s not angry with Dean, and he figures Dean would like to know. They sit in companionable silence, and Cas doesn’t watch Dean eat, doesn’t stare at him like he used to, but every now and then he glances over and their eyes meet and Dean doesn’t call him out on it, doesn’t immediately look away.

When Dean smiles a little as he watches Cas try to lift a piece of pizza laden with toppings, Cas thinks maybe it was worth all the hassle.

\--

They fall into a new routine, patterns of behavior that don’t involve Sam, and it feels like nothing so much as a holding pattern.

There’s a sense of deja vu about it. Each day is filled with the same tension as the weeks when Sam was on his hunting trip that wasn’t really a hunting trip, except this time around, Sam hasn’t promised to call to check in. He hasn’t promised he’ll come back. He hasn’t promised anything at all.

There are a lot of days like that, ones where Dean is too busy thinking about what he’s waiting for to focus on what he’s doing, too preoccupied with Sam’s absence to be bothered to notice Cas’ presence.

It hits him one day, all at once, that he can’t remember the last time Dean complained about personal space. He tests it on purpose, stands closer than he now knows is generally considered socially acceptable. He scoots so close to Dean when they drive to get food that their legs are touching, he bumps into Dean in the hallways, he leans so far over Dean’s shoulder to look at the computer that his chest is pressed against Dean’s back, and Dean doesn’t react at all. It’s only when he reaches for Dean’s hand across the table, when he touches his fingertips to Dean’s shoulder, when he moves with obvious intention, that Dean pulls away.

Dean is right there, but Cas feels so lonely.

He starts turning them into proper nouns, labeling them Bad Days. He’s glad he can’t keep a mental tally like he would have been able to before. He refuses to use the notebook Sam gave him for this purpose, to chronicle his own misery.

There are good days, too, though, lowercase days full of small triumphs. Days when Cas shows Dean videos of small, fluffy cats on YouTube or consents to marathons of movies whose plots he’s started to forget or just sits in the same room with Dean in silence, neither expecting anything of the other. Sometimes, at the end of those days, Dean says a quiet “Thanks, Cas” and it feels like a victory.

And then there are Good Days, where for a while it seems Dean forgets how unhappy he is, where it seems like it’s normal, it just being the two of them. Where it seems like Dean is a hundred percent there and present and living his life as it exists and not as he wants it to be.

Cas isn’t sure how Dean manages it, but one Good Day he goes into town and comes back and announces “We are now cleared for pizza delivery,” looking triumphant.

They decide to do a test run that evening. Dean helps Cas set up an account and place their order, and Cas is excited and grateful enough that when the more-alarm-than-doorbell announces the arrival of their dinner, he gets up to retrieve it without being prompted.

Cas was expecting a pizza delivery guy, but the person who shows up at the bunker door is a young woman, maybe in her late teens or early twenties. She hands him the pizza and says “That’ll be nineteen ninety-seven,” so Cas hands her a twenty and she counts three pennies out into his palm. He thought the transaction was complete, but she stays standing there, eyebrow raised. Cas hesitates. “Thank you,” he says, and then begins backing inside to close the door. She makes a sound through her nose, rolling her eyes before she turns to go. Cas frowns, not sure what he did wrong.

He’s still frowning as he asks Dean about it.

Dean finds Cas’ bewilderment hilarious, throwing his head back in the kind of laugh Cas had forgotten he was capable of. “You gotta tip,” he says.

“Tip?” Cas asks, because he’s still confused, even though he’s kind of smiling.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Like, give extra above whatever the order amount was.”

Human customs are so strange, Cas thinks. Even stranger than human words. “Why? Are they not paid wages by their employer?”

Dean shrugs. “They are, but it’s like, super shitty pay. They pretty much rely on tips to pay the bills.”

Cas frowns. “Wouldn’t it be simpler to simply increase their wages?”

“Look,” Dean says, rolling his eyes as he opens one of the pizza boxes, “I’m not going to explain capitalism to you. Google it.”

It seems polite to drop the subject while they eat, so Cas waits until the table has cleared and Dean has wandered off to another part of the bunker, and then he Googles tipping. He realizes he’s made an enormous mistake.

It’s still a Good Day when he goes to bed, though. He holds onto that thought as he falls asleep, like maybe it will help him remember the feeling in the morning. He wishes these days weren’t the exception.

\--

Dean doesn’t home-cook their meals any more. Cas realizes this for the first time as they’re sitting at the table of a fast food restaurant, waiting for their orders to be called.

“Fifty-six,” one of the employees calls. Cas and Dean are number sixty-three. It’s a busy day, so they have some time to wait. Cas is looking at Dean, and Dean is looking somewhere off to Cas’ left, maybe reading the signs on the wall singing the restaurant’s praises or maybe just pretending. Cas gets up to refill his drink and grab a stack of napkins and fill two small plastic containers with ketchup, just to have something to do. He thinks he might need more ketchup than that, but it’s all he can carry in a single trip. He doesn’t know if he can justify another. He sits back down and gives Dean one of the ketchup containers and half of the napkins, and Dean smiles a little and still doesn’t look at him.

When their number is finally called, Dean gets up to grab their food. He takes his own burger and gives Cas the other, and he takes the gigantic cup full of fries and sets it between them. “Guess we might need some more ketchup,” Dean says. Cas sighs.

He sighs again when he unwraps his burger. They’ve left off both the bacon and the jalapenos, which are two of his favorite things to have on a burger. “They got my order wrong,” Cas says, quietly, so only Dean can hear.

“Go tell ‘em,” Dean says around a mouthful of his own food. “They’ll fix it for you.”

Cas looks at the long line of customers and the employees moving at a frantic pace and the small child squirting mustard from the pump straight onto the counter. He looks down at the burger that’s almost correct but not quite. He listens to the number sixty-five being called over the intercom. He doesn’t want to have them fix it. “It’s fine,” he says, and takes a bite.

“Whatever,” Dean says, shrugging. “You’re too nice, dude.”

Cas doesn’t feel like it’s something he’s doing to be nice, though. It feels like the opposite of that, like something he’s doing because he doesn’t care enough, because it isn’t worth the hassle. He wonders, if you do something out of apathy rather than kindness, but the effect is the same, does that make you a kind person?

He only realizes he’s been frowning at his burger rather than eating it when Dean asks, “You okay, man?”

Cas takes a bite and thinks, this is still good, but it isn’t what I wanted. “I wish they had put the bacon and jalapenos,” he says instead.

“Well, it may not be exactly what you wanted, but it’s still good, right?” Dean says.

Cas considers that for a moment, the huge difference in meaning created by such a small difference in phrasing. Good, but not what he wanted. Not what he wanted, but good. He can’t decide which is more compelling, so he doesn’t respond, just continues eating in silence.

He still can’t figure out which applies to him, even as they throw away their trash and refill their drinks before they hit the road. He isn’t sure. He doesn’t know.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Here,” Dean says, handing Cas a grocery list, because Dean had asked Cas to pick up supplies for Sunday, and Cas, instead of saying what he had been thinking, which was “the thought of completing this basic human task without you is terrifying,” had said “all right, Dean.”

Sam calls after a few months.

They’re sitting watching TV when Dean’s phone rings, and he stares at it, very still, for two rings, three, four, and then he stirs suddenly as if waking from deep sleep and accepts the call. They’re so close together that Cas can hear both sides of the conversation.

“Hey, Dean,” Sam says, and then pauses, waiting for the customary acknowledgement. When none is forthcoming, Cas can hear Sam clear his throat, hear him say, “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah,” Dean manages, voice rough. “Yeah, it has.” As if those few words are all the past few months deserve. Sam and Dean have never been big on lengthy, introspective conversations, Cas knows, but it bothers him all the same. He sits with his hands in his lap, resisting the urge to clench them into fists, and pretends he’s not listening.

“So, uh, I was thinking,” Sam says, hesitantly, as though he’s waiting for what Cas is half-expecting, for Dean to start shouting at him, to hang up, to throw his phone across the room, _something._ But Dean is silent in a way that’s more exhausted than seething, so Sam soldiers on. “Maybe we could get together some time soon. To hang out, maybe watch some football.” Sam’s voice rises at the end, an almost-question, tinged with hopefulness.

Cas tries not to doubt Sam’s sincerity, because he sounds it, but part of him wonders, perhaps uncharitably, if Sam is simply doing this for Dean’s benefit. After all, the three of them are nothing if not excellent liars. He resists the urge to voice this suspicion. It may be valid, he knows, but he doubts it would be particularly kind.

It’s only when Dean settles a hand on Cas’ thigh that he realizes he’s been bouncing his leg, a nervous movement that seems to have started without his knowledge and absent his control. He contemplates Dean’s hand as it rests on his leg, wondering if Dean has placed it there to help ground himself or just to stop Cas’ fidgeting. He supposes it doesn’t matter. He would prefer to provide Dean with support, but he would settle for simply not being an annoyance.

“Sounds great,” Dean says. He doesn’t sound great, Cas thinks. He sounds like shit. “You, uh. You free this Sunday?”

“Sure,” Sam says, and if he picks up on Dean’s mood, he doesn’t mention it. “Be there for kickoff?”

“Yeah. Perfect. That’s great. I...We’ll make some snacks or something, so you don’t have to bring anything.” Dean hasn’t actually cooked anything since Sam left. It’s all been fast food, takeout meals, TV dinners. Cas supposes it’s probably not the right time to mention that, either.

“Sounds good. See you guys then,” Sam says, and when Dean offers a weak “See ya” in response, Sam doesn’t linger on the phone. He hangs up.

Dean swallows hard, staring at his phone for a few seconds before he puts it back in his pocket, then closes his eyes and leans back, rubbing one hand over his face. Cas had a running commentary going on in his head throughout the call, but now that it’s over, he doesn’t know what to say.

Instead, he tentatively wraps his fingers around Dean’s other hand, the one still settled against his thigh. Dean lets out a slow breath as he straightens his fingers, turning his palm over of his own volition. He lets his hand be held, and after a minute he shifts slightly, leaning to put his head on Cas’ shoulder. Cas is content to let himself be leaned on. Almost happy.

Eventually, because he’s not sure Dean was entirely aware of the promises he was making, Cas says, “I suppose we should plan what to make.” He has no idea what sort of food one makes when inviting a slightly estranged brother over to watch grown men run around in tights and body armor, but he throws the “we” in there anyway as part of his continued efforts to be supportive.

“What?” Dean says, without looking up.

“For football.”

“Oh,” Dean says, squeezing Cas’ hand slightly. “Yeah. S’pose we should.”

\--

“Here,” Dean says, handing Cas a grocery list, because Dean had asked Cas to pick up supplies for Sunday, and Cas, instead of saying what he had been thinking, which was “the thought of completing this basic human task without you is terrifying,” had said “all right, Dean.”

The list, Cas notes, appears to be primarily composed of bacon and cheese in several different flavors and states of being. He wonders if in his absence, Dean has forgotten Sam’s affinity for salad. He also wonders what cream cheese tastes like, though, so he doesn’t mention it.

Dean has also scribbled, way at the bottom of the list, “something for yourself.” Cas frowns at it, this vague suggestion at the end of the specific requests. “Something for myself?” he asks. “Like what?”

“If I pick for you, it kind of defeats the purpose, dude,” Dean says. Cas isn’t trying to look as lost as he feels, but he must, because Dean immediately ignores his own assertion. “Just, I don’t know. Find some cereal you think you’ll like or something.”

Cas will figure it out later, he supposes, and opts for locating the nearest grocery store instead, because that seems both simpler and more practical. Google tells him the population of Lebanon is approximately 218. Maybe it’s 220, if Dean and Cas count. He’s not sure they do. He isn’t hopeful about the grocery facilities in such a small town. He doubts they’ll have an adequate variety of cheeses. When he zooms out on the map, fitting the entire town within the confines of the screen, the outline of Lebanon on Google Maps is shaped like a thumbs-up. This does not reflect how Cas feels about grocery shopping.

Cas drives to Smith Center instead, which Google tells him is precisely 14.5 miles from Lebanon, population 1,665, with at least one full size grocery store. He leaves early Saturday morning so he can get there before the crowds. It reassures him how quickly Dean had provided this advice when he asked, the way he hadn’t needed an explanation or a justification.

He wanders the aisles slowly, picking up everything on Dean’s list. He has to keep going back to sections he’s already passed, hoping no one notices. He crosses off the items one by one until only “something for yourself” is left, and then he stands helplessly in front of the cereal, as much in awe at the array of choices as he is intimidated by it. There are boxes in every color of the rainbow and apparently every flavor known to humankind.

It’s a Saturday morning, and the store is nearly empty, but suddenly Cas feels trapped in this small town grocery. He clenches his hands on the handle of the shopping cart, tells himself to get a grip. Just when he starts wondering how angry or disappointed or confused Dean will be if he comes home empty handed, if he fails to achieve such a stupidly simple goal, a voice says, “Way too many choices, huh?”

Cas looks up, startled, to find a guy standing next to him, surveying the cereals and smiling. There’s a small child sitting in the shopping cart and an even smaller one buckled into the seat. Cas nods his frantic, heartfelt assent.

“Trying to pick something for your kids?” the stranger asks, sympathetically.

Cas shakes his head. “Roommate,” he says. It isn’t the word he wants to use, but he doesn’t feel capable of defining whatever it is that exists between himself and Dean here on this quiet Saturday morning in this unfamiliar town. And it’s definitely easier than saying, _No, I am having an existential crisis in the breakfast aisle for my own sake, thank you for asking._ He’s telling what he has learned is called a white lie: a lie the speaker believes will not harm anyone once uttered. Historically, he knows most of his lies have not been white lies.

“Well,” the guy asks, “are they more of a grumpy old person or a kid at heart?”

Cas thinks of Dean and smiles faintly. “A bit of both,” he says.

The guy helps Cas pick, and he ends up with a box of Cap’n Crunch Oops All Berries and one of Kellogg’s All Bran. The first looks like orbs of colorful styrofoam. The second looks like shavings of tree bark. Cas imagines Dean will laugh at the choices. He smiles in the checkout line, thinking about it.

He doesn’t intend to tell Dean the story behind them, that he picked them out thinking more of Dean than of himself. He thinks, if he did, Dean would probably tell him he missed the point of the exercise. He understands the point, though. He just figures that if Dean is the point of reference for his entire existence, the first word in his definition of self, he can live with that.

\--

Dean doesn’t say it outright, but Cas knows he did a good job with the grocery shopping. He knows because Dean smiles as he puts the cheese in the fridge. Dean laughs as he examines the cereal.

On Sunday morning, Cas helps Dean prepare the food for Sam’s arrival, and some of it is easy, just setting aside a bowl to toss some chips into later, sticking some beers in the fridge. Even some of the stuff that takes a little more effort is pretty simple, like the buffalo chicken dip -- boil some chicken, chop it up, toss it in a crock pot with the other ingredients. But then they start on the jalapeno poppers.

Dean tasks Cas with cooking the bacon, directing him to place it in the pan a few strips at a time, flip it every now and then until it’s done. It seems like he’s only a few seconds into the task when the first traitorous bits of grease begin to pop up from the pan onto his exposed skin, and he tries not to flinch away every time it happens. He’s so eager to be done that his first attempt results in bacon that is, as Dean puts it, “Practically still oinking.” He has Cas toss it back in the pan, and Cas turns away for just a minute to watch Dean preparing the onion rings. When he turns back to the stove, the bacon appears to have transformed into strips of charcoal.

Dean just snorts when he sees, claps Cas on the shoulder and says, “Time for Plan B.” Dean helps him line some cookie sheets with foil, lay out the rest of the bacon, and then toss everything in the oven and set a timer.

“Shoulda done it this way from the beginning,” Dean says. “Now you can multitask.”

He has Cas prep the jalapenos next, slicing off the tops and cutting them in half, then scraping out the insides. Cas stops part way through to flip the bacon and reset the timer. By the time he’s finished, his fingertips are starting to feel strange. It’s only when he opens the oven to take out the bacon and the heat hits his hands that they start hurting in earnest, though.

“Dean,” Cas says miserably, holding up his hands, though nothing appears out of the ordinary. They don’t even have the decency to turn a bit red, provide at least a little physical evidence of his discomfort. Which explains why Dean is giving him a puzzled look. “It burns,” Cas supplies.

“Oh, shit,” Dean says, setting down his knife to come take Cas’ hands in his own, turn them over as though looking for damage. “What happened? Did you accidentally touch the pan?”

“No, I...I think it was the peppers.”

“Oh,” Dean says, and then breaks into a grin. “ _Oh._ Jesus, dude, you really had me worried.” Cas frowns at Dean’s sudden lack of concern, but then Dean is leading him over to the table and sitting him down in one of the chairs. “What’s that stuff called?” Dean asks, as he grabs a washcloth from the drawer and heads for the sink. “That stuff that makes peppers hot?”

“Capsaicin,” Cas grumbles. The fact that he remembers this bit of information is not a consolation at the moment.

“Yeah, capsaicin.” Dean runs the cloth under the tap before heading back towards where Cas is sitting. “Guess the capsaicin got the better of you, huh?”

Cas makes a noncommittal noise that turns into a sigh of relief as Dean wraps his burning fingers in the cool washcloth. “Just chill here,” Dean says. “I got this.” He places one hand on Cas’ back, places a soft kiss on the top of his head as he stands, like it’s just that simple, and then heads back to his cutting board. “Seriously, though,” he says, without turning, “don’t touch your face or rub your eyes. Trust me, you’ll regret it. And if you gotta take a piss, uh. Well. Might wanna do it sitting down.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas murmurs, as he sits with the cloth covering his hands, trying not to think of running water or the taut line of Dean’s shoulders, the tension he’s trying to hide as he moves around the kitchen.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean spends the entire time being pleasant and laughing and smiling, but Cas knows, somehow, maybe he just knows what people look like now, when they’re trying to convince themselves they’re not falling apart.

Sam shows up with a six pack of beer, even though Dean told him not to bring anything. It’s the same brand Dean had Cas buy yesterday. There are a dozen of them sitting in the fridge this very moment. Dean doesn’t say that, though. He says, “Hey, Sam.” He takes the beers and says, “Thanks.” He puts them in a cooler with some ice and sets it next to the couch, presumably for easy access while they watch the game.

Sam stands awkwardly, as though he’s already forgotten how he fits into this space, until Dean invites him to sit down. He looks only marginally relieved, sitting there perched in a chair, separate from where Dean and Cas are sitting on the couch.

Cas helps bring out the food, placing it in an impressive spread on the table. “You guys really went all out,” Sam notes, smiling earnestly.

“Dean did,” Cas says, because he wants to give credit where credit is due.

“Don’t sell yourself short, man,” Dean says. “You helped a ton. Couldn’t have done it without you.” That’s rather charitable of him, Cas thinks. He spent most of the time recovering from the help he provided. But Sam doesn’t know that. Maybe Dean doesn’t want Sam to know.

He’ll admit the bacon did ultimately turn out crispy and delicious, though, melt-in-your-mouth perfection topping off the jalapeno poppers. “You better enjoy these,” Cas says to Sam, mock-threatening, as he hands over a plate. “I wasn’t able to slaughter the pig myself, but I’ll have you know I risked third-degree burns in their preparation.” That was good, Cas thinks. Just the right amount of humor, just barely self-deprecating. Sam smiles his thanks.

They manage to watch football almost companionably. Dean and Sam cheer during exciting plays, they make fun of the commentators, they argue against the referees, they make references to things Cas doesn’t understand, play options and redzones and something called the “tuck rule” that Dean declares “utter bullshit” as Sam nods his agreement.

Dean spends the entire time being pleasant and laughing and smiling, but Cas knows, somehow, maybe he just knows what people look like now, when they’re trying to convince themselves they’re not falling apart.

Cas tries to focus on the games. He listens when Sam and Dean explain the rules and tries to retain the information for future reference. He tries. But later, when he thinks back on it, he won’t be able to remember the scores. He won’t even be able to recall the teams. He spends the entire time on edge, wondering what’s going to happen when Sam leaves. He’ll remember the way Dean sat next to him on the couch but never relaxed into it. He’ll remember how every one of Sam’s smiles was sort of sad.

“Well, uh,” Sam says, at the end of the second game. “I should probably head out.”

“Oh,” Dean says, still staring at the TV, but then he sits up a little, shakes his head as though rousing himself, forcing his mind to process what Sam has said. “Oh,” he repeats. “Yeah. Long drive?”

“Bit of a drive, yeah,” Sam says, after a long moment. It occurs to Cas that neither he nor Dean know where Sam is living now. When Sam looks at Dean levelly, Cas understands he wants it that way. He wonders if this will be it, if this will be Dean’s breaking point. But no. Dean lets the moment pass, just sits there nodding, waiting for Sam to initiate their goodbyes.

“This was fun,” Sam says, already starting to stand. “Let’s do it again sometime.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Sure. Of course.”

Sam looks like he’s going to leave it at that, for a second, and Cas tenses, he braces himself for the fallout, but then Sam says, “Thank you, Dean. Really.” When they hug, it occurs to Cas that Dean is standing still for the first time in months.

Sam hugs Cas, too, and he says, “Thanks, Cas” as he does it.

“No problem,” Cas says, because he’s learned that’s the appropriate response, and technically it hasn’t been a problem, not yet, but he’s fairly certain it’s about to be.

After Sam leaves, they watch the last game in silence. When the team Cas knows Dean is rooting for loses spectacularly and Dean says nothing, he knows Dean hasn’t really been paying attention. Dean gets up and turns off the TV as the post-game commentary begins and then he walks very calmly to his room.

There are a few more moments of silence before Cas hears what sounds distinctly like something being thrown against the wall and breaking into pieces. Cas walks down the hall softly, stands in Dean’s doorway and watches him pull his belongings off his shelves, throw his weapons to the ground, remove everything from his nightstand with a single sweep of his arm. Cas knows what it feels like, this impotent anger, this rage with only the strength of your own muscles to fuel it, this urge to destroy with only your own life placed in its wake. He just wishes he knew the antidote.

Cas watches Dean pull apart as much of his room as he can, and when he’s done, Dean sits on his knees in the middle of the disaster and presses the heels of his palms against his eyes. Cas stands for a moment, unsure, before he goes and kneels down in front of Dean on the floor, and Dean lets Cas wrap his arms around him, he fists his hands in Cas’ shirt and breathes against Cas’ neck. Thirty minutes later, when Dean’s breathing has evened out and Cas’ legs have started to ache, Dean lets Cas help him up, lets Cas lead him to bed and tuck him in. Dean closes his eyes and lets Cas pick up his things and put them back on the shelves and the walls, he lets Cas turn off the light and close the door and retreat to his own room.

Cas lays awake in his own bed and listens to the silence in the bunker and thinks, I don’t know what else to do.

\--

Cas sits in the kitchen the next morning, waiting for Dean and pretending not to be.

When Dean finally makes his way out of his room, it’s past midday. Cas aches from sitting in one spot for so long, but when Dean barely spares him more than a glance as he grabs a cup of coffee and wanders back out into the bunker, that hurts worse. He doesn’t know what he was expecting. For Dean to pull Cas into his space, maybe. For Dean to convince them both that Cas is still here. For something else than what he got, at any rate.

The whole day is like that, a series of casual dismissals. Cas sits on the edge of his bed, sinks into the couch, idles in the library. Cas watches Dean move around him, past him, away from him. He tries to coax Dean into conversation, waits for Dean to return the favor and tries not to be disappointed when he doesn’t. He watches Dean move in the surrounding space as though Cas doesn’t exist. When he exhausts himself with the weight of his own expectations, he lies on the couch and pretends he still knows how to be invisible.

Dean is giving him space, Cas realizes. Space to think, space to exist. So much space that Cas could walk away, if he wanted.

Cas falls asleep on the couch without meaning to. He wakes to find Dean covering him with a blanket, not the normal kind of waking where he’s startled into sudden consciousness, just a slow, hazy sort of awareness. He stays perfectly still, not wanting to break the illusion, not willing to ruin whatever magic has finally drawn Dean to him.

Dean brushes Cas’ hair off his forehead, and then he’s pressing his lips to the side of Cas' head so, so gently that Cas could pretend he imagined it, if he wanted.

\--

Animated films have hundreds upon hundreds of frames, each one necessary to tell the story, to create the illusion of motion, to give life to the characters. In some of them the figures are wildly distorted, but the frames flash by so quickly your eyes don’t really catch them, they just become part of the greater whole, one moment flowing smoothly into the next.

People have those, too, Cas knows, those inbetween faces you aren’t meant to see.

He used to be able to spot them in Dean. Cas would ask something like _How are you?_ and the split second that would pass before Dean could manage to flash a smile and say _I’m fantastic_ would seem as an eternity to Cas, it was so obvious that it was easy to call him on it, to say _No, you’re not_ and prompt him for more.

But Dean’s expressions flicker by too quickly for Cas to follow, now. Maybe it’s that his perceptions are slowing down, or maybe Dean’s just getting better at it, maybe he’s shaving fractions of seconds off his hesitations like he’s training for something, like he wants to be a world-class competitor for glossing over his own feelings.

The cause doesn’t matter, Cas supposes. The effect is the same.

Dean wanders into the room a few minutes after Cas wakes in earnest. He must not realize at first that Cas is conscious, because he flicks his gaze over to the couch and meets Cas’ eyes, and for the barest moment the look on his face is one of incredulity.

“Morning, Cas,” he says, casual. Back to baseline. Cas wonders if maybe his mind is playing tricks on him. Preferable, Cas thinks, to the idea that Dean really is surprised that he’s still here. “Hungry?”

“Yes,” Cas says, because he doesn’t know that Dean would appreciate or believe Cas’ assurance that he isn’t going to disappear in the night.

Dean makes them toast. Cas admires it for a second before spreading on butter and jam, notes how perfectly Dean has timed it so each piece is a beautiful golden brown. Cas had tried to make toast, once. It didn’t go well.

“Sorry it’s such a half-assed breakfast,” Dean says, because people don’t normally stare fondly at pieces of bread.

“No,” Cas says. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Uh,” Dean says, and there it is again, that split-second look of surprise. “Yeah. No problem.”

“Perhaps we’ll both be back to whole-assing things tomorrow,” Cas says. He still isn’t used to it, this process of casually incorporating pop culture references into everyday conversation. He still isn’t even really used to everyday conversation. But Dean rewards him with a laugh, and he thinks, maybe I can get the hang of this.

“Bacon and eggs tomorrow, then,” Dean decides, and he’s smiling as he says it, ten solid seconds of grinning without anything else inbetween.

Cas nods his agreement.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas supposes he would look at someone strangely, too, if every glance was a reminder of the time they let themselves be left behind.

Cas catches Dean looking at him strangely, sometimes.

It takes him a while to quantify it. He looks at himself in the mirror every morning, examines the human features that have become his own, and he wonders. But he looks about the same as he always has in this body, he thinks. Same eyes, same nose, same mouth.

He doesn’t understand until one day when he’s scratching idly at the hair trailing down his neck. He thinks, _This is unpleasant, like when I was--oh._

Cas supposes he would look at someone strangely, too, if every glance was a reminder of the time they let themselves be left behind.

He knows how to shave. He did it himself, a few times, during his previous brushes with humanity, but never enough to become practiced. For all his finesse in battle, he never managed to wield a razor without winding up drawing blood. Still, technically speaking, he doesn’t require Dean’s help.

He asks for it, anyway, because he knows the language of need is perhaps the only one Dean understands.

“Sure thing,” Dean says. He looks relieved.

Cas trails Dean as he moves around the bunker, gathering supplies: razor, whetstone, shaving cream, towels. There’s something comforting about it, about being led. About Dean having a plan. Dean even manages to find a salon cape. He pulls a chair into the bathroom, has Cas sit down, and drapes it over his shoulders.

Dean starts without preamble, without asking permission, just presses his fingertips to Cas’ chin and tilts his head up, leaning in to get a good look. “Oh,” he says. “It’s longer than I thought. Hang on, gonna start with the clippers.” He leaves to go grab them, and Cas thinks it’s probably for the best, that Dean didn’t ask. He might have inadvertently revealed how desperate he is to be touched, to be treated like he’s here.

“All right,” Dean says upon his return, and then it’s all business, a quick trim with the electric clippers before moving on to the razor. Dean runs a towel under the tap until it’s nice and hot, giving it to Cas to hold over his face while he sharpens and strops the blade.

“The towel softens the hair,” Dean explains. He’s looking at his hands, Cas notices. Cas watches, too. He would have a hard time looking away. “And you have to make sure the blade is nice and sharp if you want the best possible shave. Do it right and you need hardly any pressure.”

Dean peels the towel from Cas’ face and grabs the shaving cream. He doesn’t even hesitate before he starts working it into what’s left of Cas’ beard. He’s focusing on his hands, still, his own foam-covered fingers. “Normally you'd make three passes to get a really smooth shave,” he says, hand on Cas’ jaw, “rinsing and lathering inbetween each. With the grain, then across, then against. If you're just starting, though, you should probably just do the first pass.” He stands back, then, and offers Cas a brief glance, a quick grin. “Besides, you look good with a little scruff. Don’t move.” He places the razor against Cas’ neck, just barely touching his skin. Clever, Cas thinks, preventing him the opportunity to respond. Cas isn’t the only strategist.

“Also,” Dean says, “don’t try this yourself. Takes a lot of practice, and people have seriously hurt themselves screwing around. Hell, I’ve been doing this for years and I’m still nervous I’m gonna stab you on accident or something.” He huffs an awkward laugh, as if he knows the joke was in poor taste. That’s not what makes Cas tense, though.

It’s not that, Cas thinks. It’s not that easy. He remembers stabbing Dean, over and over, hundreds of different ways. He remembers how hard it was to do, even though his blade so easily pierced skin and muscle and bone. Killing one another isn’t something either of them could do accidentally, he knows. It takes practice. He’s struck with a sudden compulsion to share this insight with Dean, but he imagines it wouldn’t be particularly comforting. He certainly doesn’t find it reassuring.

Cas squeezes his eyes shut and tries to focus on the feel of Dean’s hand on his shoulder, steadying.

“You okay?” Dean asks, and Cas can hear the frown in his voice.

“Yes,” Cas grits out, and in his desperation not to sound panicked, he sounds like something else entirely. Angry, maybe. Annoyed.

He still has his eyes closed, but he can feel it, can feel the way they’re getting trapped in each other’s negative feedback, reverberating each other’s misunderstandings. Dean’s hand disappears from his shoulder. Dean’s body heat retreats as he moves away.

“Look,” Dean says, and Cas can hear the annoyance in it, the puzzled frustration. “If you don’t wanna do this, you can just say so.” As the last word comes out, harsh and clipped, Dean’s hand jerks. Cas inhales sharply at the sudden twinge of pain. He opens his eyes. Dean is looking at him like--not like he’s a ghost, because Dean has faced too many of those to look at them like this, eyes wide, lips slightly parted. Cas doesn’t know this look.

“Shit,” Dean says. “Shit.”

It’s only when Cas sees red in his peripheral vision, dripping in a thin line down the salon cape, that he realizes he’s bleeding. “Oh,” he says.

“Shit,” Dean repeats, setting down the razor, turning away. Retreating. “Fuck, Cas, I’m--I’ll...I’ll just…”

Cas stands, catching Dean’s wrist before he can escape. “Dean, it’s all right,” he says, to the back of Dean’s head. He waits for Dean to turn back around. “It’s all right,” he repeats. “It doesn’t hurt. It’s fine.” He’s lying again. It does hurt. But not as much as it would hurt them both to let this be the way this endeavor ends, to settle for this lack of a resolution. A white lie, Cas thinks. Mutual benefit. Maybe it’s justified.

Dean doesn’t relax, exactly, but his expression shifts to something else. “You’re bleeding,” he says, like an apology.

“Witch hazel,” Cas says, dropping Dean’s wrist and sitting back down. When Dean doesn’t move, simply continues standing as if rooted to the spot, Cas rolls his eyes. “It’s a natural astringent?”

“Oh,” Dean says. “Right.” It takes a moment, but that seems to refocus him. He rummages around in the cabinet, retrieves a small bottle and some cotton balls. “Good aftershave, too,” he says. “Like hell would Sam let me get away with using anything alcohol-based.”

Dean uses one of the spare towels to dab away the blood, gently applies some of the witch hazel to Cas’ neck to help stop the bleeding. By the time Dean is done, he’s made Cas’ previous statement come true; it really doesn’t hurt, not any more. It could have been worse, Cas thinks. He can think of a lot of ways things could have been worse between them. He’s already lived through a number of them.

Dean moves as though to pick back up the razor, stopping short with his hand hovering just above it. He looks up at Cas, hesitating, and Cas understands the question in it.

“I don’t have all day,” Cas grumbles, even though he does. It’s easier for them both than _I trust you._

“Right,” Dean says, and reapplies the lather, finishes shaving Cas’ chin without incident.

His hands are shaking.

\--

“You hungry?” Dean asks, when they’re done cleaning up, when everything has been put back in its place. Dean asks that often, Cas realizes, when they’re tip-toeing around one another. Like a placeholder for the things he can’t bring himself to say. Cas nods.

When they get to the kitchen, though, Dean sits at the table. “So, I was thinking,” he says, “maybe you could make dinner? There’s some pasta in the cabinet. All you gotta do is boil it, it’s nearly impossible to s--” He stops, thinking better of whatever he was going to say.

_Nearly impossible to screw up,_ Cas thinks, and lets Dean talk him through making spaghetti.

They eat in silence. The noodles have taken on a strange texture, Cas thinks. They’re sticking together, which they don’t do when Dean cooks. If Dean notices it, though, he doesn’t mention it. Cas is struck by the sudden, incomprehensible urge to scream, to cry, to throw his plate against the wall, _something._ But he doesn’t, he just continues forking overcooked pasta into his mouth mechanically. If Dean notices that, he doesn’t say anything, either.

When they finish, Cas puts their dishes in the sink and goes to his room and lies down. Doesn’t sleep, just lies there until he gets tired of not sleeping and gets up to take a shower.

Dean’s sins haunt him at night, manifest in nightmares that have him waking up screaming. Cas, according to Dean, sleeps like the dead. Appropriate, Cas thinks, because sometimes that’s how he feels. His sins do him the disservice of bothering him while he’s awake. He stands under the spray and he thinks about sinking under the water, remembers this baptism and wonders, wasn’t that supposed to absolve me? But here I am still drowning, and where’s the justice in that.

But it’s not about justice or fairness. He thinks, sometimes, maybe that reservoir wasn’t big enough to contain all his sins. Maybe an entire ocean wouldn’t be big enough.

Dean wanders by after it’s been long enough for Cas to exhaust himself thinking about it but not long enough to tire himself to the point his body finally consents to let him sleep. “You okay?” Dean asks, and Cas is struck with the sheer absurdity of the question, the enormity of the negative answer. No, he thinks. He is absolutely the opposite of _okay._ The very insinuation is insulting. He clenches his jaw, grinds his teeth. “Can I, uh…” Dean hovers awkwardly by the door. “Is there anything I can get you?”

“Just let me be sad,” Cas snaps, rolling over, so he’s facing away. There’s a long pause in which he can feel Dean weighing his options. He hates the thought that Dean might think he’s upset over poorly cooked pasta, but he can’t bring himself to offer any further explanation, can’t grapple with something so vast at this precise moment.

“All right,” Dean says, and leaves so quietly that Cas only knows he’s gone because of the way the light filtering in through the door shifts, grows a little brighter in his absence.

He gets up long after he knows Dean has gone to sleep. He walks through the silent halls, the storage areas, the library. His mind is like that, he thinks; a library filled with well-organized sins sitting on the shelves, books with his mistakes printed on the spines so he can examine them at his leisure. Leviathan, one reads, followed by Lying, Manipulation, Novak, Claire, Novak, Jimmy. There’s one for Dean, too, multi-volume, like an encyclopedia.

When Cas finally falls asleep, it’s by accident, leaning on his arms at the table, thinking of all the things that can’t be unwritten.

When he wakes, Dean is sitting across from him, looking down at a book. Dean is waiting for him to say something, Cas knows, because his eyes are focused on a single point on the page. He’s not very good at pretending to be reading.

“It’s not your job to fix me,” Cas says, rubbing feeling back into his limbs. Dean looks up at him, and Cas sees their past spread between them, open for perusal: _We can fix this. It’s not broken!_

“Yeah,” Dean says, softly. “I know.” He closes his book, sits tapping his fingers against the cover. “How about. Uh.” He smiles at Cas, then, tentative, like it’s his first time trying one on. “Breakfast? Can I fix you breakfast?”

“Yes,” Cas says. “You can fix me breakfast.” He follows Dean to the kitchen, thinking: this is their same story. They can’t change that. But it can be a new volume, he thinks. A different chapter, if they want it to be.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is frowning the first time they kiss.

Dean is frowning the first time they kiss.

It catches Cas by surprise because Dean frowns more than he smiles, and he thinks, maybe this is something we could do if we were happy, if the scales were tipped the other way. This is the kind of thing that would happen at the climax of a movie, guy gets girl, guy gets plot resolution. But there’s no goal they’re working towards, no cause to which to attach himself. His life has become one long denouement, just waiting for the inevitable conclusion. He wakes up with a headache, and Dean spends the day frowning. They both spend the day frowning.

Cas looks everywhere for painkillers, for something to take the edge off the dull ache that has done what he hasn’t been able to, has made a home in his skull. He checks in all the obvious places, in the bathroom and the makeshift infirmary and in the nightstand in his bedroom, and then in less obvious places, kitchen, war room, library, until finally he gives up and goes back to sitting in Dean’s general vicinity with a huff. Dean looks up at him with an eyebrow raised. Dean is still frowning.

“What gives?” Dean asks.

“Headache,” Cas says, and leans with his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands, as much to rub his aching head as to have an excuse to look away.

“Oh,” Dean says. “Shoulda told me.” And he gets up and walks away, and Cas doesn’t even have the capacity to wonder about it, just thinks, _Whatever._

But then Dean is back and nudging his shoulder gently. “Here,” he says, and hands Cas a couple of pills and a glass of water.

“Thank you,” Cas says, and swallows them, and then looks up at Dean. “May I have the bottle?” He’s trying to be practical, but Dean looks at him like he’s being ungrateful. Lets his face twist into something displeased before he forces it back to neutral.

“No,” Dean says, and Cas can feel his own frown shift deeper, into a scowl.

“Why not?”

Dean flounders, in that moment, fails to lie as easily as usual. “Well, it’s just. You’re only supposed to take a certain amount, you know, there are--there are all kinds of side effects, you gotta be careful with that shit, you--”

“I’m not a _child,_ ” Cas hisses, and that shuts Dean up. It’s satisfying, stunning Dean to silence, turns Cas snide, his relentless headache making it harder to mask his bad mood. “I can even open the lid all by myself. I can show you, if you want.”

“Cas, that’s not what I--”

“Forget it,” he says, even though at that last moment Dean’s expression had shifted again, had looked less like anger or doubt and more like something else, just a little bit softer than fear, and then he gets up and he walks away. He goes back to his room and lies down and thinks, fuck him and fuck this headache.

He wakes up a few hours later, head still pounding, and he intends to continue being angry, but he opens his eyes and on his nightstand is another glass of water and a bottle of ibuprofen. He picks it up and shakes it experimentally. It rattles in a satisfying way, nearly full, and his anger evaporates.

He reads the instructions. Two pills every four hours. He looks at the clock and thinks, another hour to go. Time enough to say something to Dean, maybe a thank you, maybe an apology, maybe something unrelated as though the rest of the day didn’t happen.

Cas goes to knock on Dean’s bedroom door, and when Dean opens it Cas doesn’t even have time to open his mouth before Dean grabs him by the shoulders and crowds him against the wall and kisses him.

There’s no preamble, no picture-perfect moment, just Dean flush against him. There’s a second of roughness, Dean’s fingers digging into his skin, their teeth clacking together, before Dean loosens his grip, shifts to something gentler. Cas wonders if maybe their entire relationship could be summed up in this kiss, in the coexistence of violence and tenderness.

If his life was a book, he would be closing his eyes right now, he would be parting his lips so Dean could lick his tongue into his mouth. He would be narrating the exact way Dean tastes, he would be going on about how happy he is, about how long he’s been waiting for this. Instead, he’s caught so off guard that he forgets to close his eyes, which is why he knows Dean is frowning. He would have known anyway, though, would have felt it in the curve of Dean’s mouth as it pressed against his own.

He wonders what it means, that Dean is frowning. He wonders if Dean is already disappointed by this moment even though it’s barely started. He wonders if Dean will be disappointed by the way Cas is sure he kisses, slow and awkward and inexperienced. The thought is surprisingly untroubling. After all, he’s used to disappointing Dean in one way or another. He’s just thinking he’ll take what he can get for as long as Dean is willing to give it when he realizes, in all his thinking, he has forgotten to kiss Dean back.

“Sorry,” Dean says, pulling back, letting Cas go. He’s staring at a point on Cas’ chest, slightly off center. “I--sorry.”

“What for?” Cas asks, and reaches a hand up, tentative, to touch the side of Dean’s face, not sure if it’s the right thing to do.

Dean closes his eyes, leans into the touch like he’s imagining Cas here, like that’s how he’s most comfortable. Cas wonders how many times Dean must have tried to picture how this moment would feel, tries to quantify it until he realizes that any amount is enough to make him hurt.

Dean kisses Cas again, tentatively, but at least this time, Cas remembers to kiss him back.

When they break apart, Dean fists his hands in Cas’ shirt. They lean with their foreheads pressed together, and when Dean catches his breath he says, “So, uh. Dinner?”

Cas hesitates. He wants to say, can’t we just continue with this until I’m good at it, until I’m enough for you? But he doesn’t know how to ask for what he wants, and even if he did, he supposes he doesn’t have the right.

“Okay,” Cas says, frowning.

\--

Dean cooks while Cas watches, tucked away in a corner, careful to stay out of the way.

“It looks delicious,” Cas says, when Dean finally sets a plate and a glass of water down in front of him.

Dean nods modestly, gesturing at Cas’ plate with his fork. “Chicken fettuccini alfredo. Roasted brussels sprouts, pretty much drowning in butter.”

Cas twirls some noodles around his fork carefully, stabbing a piece of chicken when he’s finished in order to keep them from sliding off the end. He shoves the large bite into his mouth and regrets it almost immediately. The sauce is incredibly rich, cloying, sticking to the inside of his mouth. He chews very, very slowly, eventually swallowing with some difficulty. He doesn’t fare much better with the brussels sprouts. He suspects no amount of butter would be sufficient to mask the bitterness.

He doesn’t like it. He sets his fork on his plate and drinks his entire glass of water. He can feel Dean’s eyes on him.

“What’s up?” Dean asks.

Cas hesitates. He doesn’t want to tell Dean the truth, but he doesn’t want to lie. “I’m finished,” he says, eventually.

“Are you for fucking real?” Dean asks, and Cas doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything, just sits staring down at his unfinished food.

“Whatever,” Dean mutters, slamming his own fork down, pushing away from the table abruptly, chair scraping loudly against the floor. “Make yourself a goddamn sandwich or something.” He walks away, and Cas flinches when he hears Dean’s door slam, even from this far away.

He sits there for a long time, marveling at how easy it is for things to go wrong, and when he’s done indulging his own bitterness, he gets up and scrapes the food off their plates and into the trash. He moves the leftovers from the pans to plastic containers and puts them in the fridge. He does the dishes, cleaning them meticulously before wiping them dry and putting everything back in its rightful place. He wipes down the stove, the counters, the table. He leaves everything spotless, like he knows Dean wants it.

He walks down the hall, not trying to be quiet but not really trying to announce his approach, either, and stands at the door to Dean’s room. He raises his hand as though to knock, stands with his fingers hovering a few inches from the door until his arm gets tired, then lowers his fist and walks away.

By the time he’s made it back to his own room, he realizes his headache has returned. The ibuprofen is still sitting on the nightstand, but the glass of water is empty, and going to refill it suddenly seems like more effort than it’s worth. He lays down instead, even though he’s not tired. Just sits down fully clothed and rolls over onto his side on top of the covers. He left the door open, not as an invitation, but he doesn’t have the will to get up and close it.

He’s startled awake by a knock on the doorframe. He doesn’t remember dozing off.

“Can I come in?” Dean asks, faltering a little, like maybe he’s not going to cross the threshold without permission, this time.

Cas rolls over, making room for Dean on the bed. “Yes,” he says.

Dean perches on the edge of the mattress, like he’s preparing to flee at any second. Cas remembers what that was like, being able to disappear whenever he wanted, already halfway gone whether he was standing or sitting or lying. He remembers how easy it was to run away. He misses it, sometimes, even though he realizes it never did him any good, being only partially present. Never really having to commit. He slides over and hooks an arm around Dean’s waist, buries his face against Dean’s hip. Dean inhales, exhales slowly.

“I’m--” Dean starts, and then pauses, clears his throat. “It’s okay for you to, uh. To not like all the same things I like.”

It’s not an apology, really. It’s different. A plan going forward, not guilt over what’s already past.

Cas tugs at Dean’s waist, guiding him onto the bed until Dean is lying with his back to Cas’ chest, Cas’ arm still around his waist.

_I like you,_ Cas thinks.

“Thank you,” he says instead, to the back of Dean’s neck, “for taking care of me.”

Cas is half expecting Dean to huff out one of his self-deprecating laughs, but instead, he sighs. “I’m trying, Cas.”

“I know,” Cas says, because he does, even when he has a hard time believing it. “Me too.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I can’t find my keys,” Cas says, and tries not to sound like the world is ending.

Cas wakes up to go grocery shopping the following Saturday and he can’t find the keys to his car.

There are other keys to other cars he could find, maybe, but he doesn’t want to drive those cars, he wants to drive _his_ car, he wants to go through _his_ usual routine. He looks for them in the garage and his bedroom and the library, he searches every last place he can think of for thirty minutes and then he decides he needs to recruit some help.

Cas shakes Dean awake in only half a panic, because he’s developed his routine, right, and he knows if he doesn’t get going to the store soon, it’s going to be flooded with people and then it doesn’t matter that he knows the route and the aisles and the cashiers because he won’t be able to get the shopping done, he just knows it.

“Jesus, Cas, what is it?” Dean grumbles, which is an unsurprising reaction, Cas supposes, given that he’s being shaken awake at 7AM on a Saturday.

“I can’t find my keys,” Cas says, and tries not to sound like the world is ending.

Dean still has his face smashed against his pillow, eyes closed, but Cas can hear the eye roll in his voice. “You remember the whole history of the universe and you can’t remember where you put your damn keys?”

Cas had been whispering before that, had managed to tone his panic down enough not to shout, but something in him snaps at that. Whatever was keeping his voice at an acceptable volume disappears. “I have billions of years of memories, Dean, _billions,_ and cars have existed for only a tiny insignificant fraction of time, and all of it is starting to blur together, just like everything is, which is why I can’t cook without a recipe and why I need you to write out a grocery list and why I can’t remember where I put my goddamn car keys.” It all comes out in one great rush and ends with Cas practically shouting.

Dean is fully awake, now. He’s awake and sitting up and looking at Cas kind of strangely, and he’s silent for a moment and then says, “Okay.” And he gets up without another word and throws on a robe and helps Cas look for his keys.

They go through the whole bunker, even the places Cas has already checked. Cas mutters angrily as he looks, mostly vague grumbling that Dean doesn’t comment on, but as the search drags on and on, he gets more vocal with his complaints. “Get your shit together, Anthony,” Cas announces to the bunker at large.

Dean leans out of a nearby closet to look at Cas with a raised eyebrow. “Who the hell is Anthony?” he asks.

“He’s the patron saint of lost things,” Cas explains, “and frankly, I think someone more qualified needs to be given his position.”

Dean chuckles his agreement, glancing down at his watch. “Look, man, it’s been over an hour. What do you say we call it quits for now?”

Cas grumbles but acquiesces. “It’s too late to go to the store now, anyway.”

“I think we’ll live,” Dean says. “We still have enough stuff around to throw together some breakfast. How about pancakes and eggs for now, and then we can go out later for lunch?”

“All right,” Cas says, because it doesn’t sound like a bad way to spend a Saturday, even if it’s not the usual way he spends his Saturdays. Besides, he likes pancakes. Waffles seem overly complicated, but pancakes he enjoys.

Dean makes the eggs differently every time. Today they’re poached, and Cas chews on his thoughtfully. “Better than scrambled,” he decides. “Not as good as fried.”

“Noted,” Dean says, like he’s been keeping track. Maybe he has. Cas likes the idea Dean has been keeping track even more than he likes the pancakes.

They lounge around the bunker after breakfast and into the early afternoon, passing the time watching TV, reading, gravitating into and out of each others’ presence. It’s nice, Cas thinks. Comfortable.

They’re both hungry again mid-afternoon, so they head to a burger joint on the outskirts of Smith Center. That’s nice, too, Cas thinks, being there at this time inbetween lunch and dinner. It’s not too crowded and their waitress is pleasant, smiling as she seats them at a booth by the window.

Dean and Cas spend the meal sitting across from one another floating in and out of conversation, talking about whatever comes to mind; what they think of the food (“Four out of five,” Dean says, and Cas doesn’t argue. He hasn’t yet met a burger joint he didn’t like.), the meal plan for the week, the fact they should do laundry tonight. Partway through the meal, a small bird lands just outside the window.

“It’s looking at your burger lustfully,” Dean says.

Cas raises an eyebrow. “You couldn’t possibly tell if a bird was looking at something lustfully.”

Dean shrugs, seemingly unswayed by this argument. “Well,” he says, “ _you_ definitely look at burgers lustfully, and that bird is cocking its head to the side in the same way you do sometimes. So it’s the only logical conclusion.” Dean points a fry at Cas’ food for emphasis. “ _Lustfully._ ”

Cas just rolls his eyes in response. Dean shoves the fry in his mouth, smiling around the bite, and nudges Cas’ foot playfully under the table. Cas smiles back, and that’s when it hits him that this is a date. That’s what Dean is to him, or at least part of it. This is a date. They’re dating. Cas doesn’t think Dean would admit it, if he asked, but it doesn’t matter. It’s nice, being on a date with Dean.

After they’re done with their meal ( _Date,_ Cas reminds himself), Dean drives to the hardware store, and Cas sits in the car with the windows open, enjoying the slight breeze, while Dean picks up supplies. When they get back to the bunker, Cas helps Dean install a neat row of hooks in the garage where they can hang the keys for each vehicle in the same order in which they’re parked in the stalls. “This way,” Dean explains, “as soon as we find your keys--don’t give me that look, they’ll turn up sooner or later--there’s already a spot ready for them, and then we’ll never have to go through this hassle again, no thanks to that Anthony guy.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says, and tries to ignore the fact that his keys are still missing.

The hunt comes to an end later that evening as they’re doing the laundry. “There’s no point bothering with separating the lights and the darks or whatever,” Dean is explaining, “because who gives a shit when you’re probably just going to get blood stains on your clothes anyway?” Cas is nodding his agreement when he hears a familiar jangling sound.

“Oh,” he says, and pulls his keys from the pocket of the pants he wore for his last trek to the grocery store.

“Told ya,” Dean says, giving Cas a thumbs-up.

Cas smiles at Dean, then scowls in the direction of the ceiling. “Don’t get any ideas, now, Anthony,” he says. “Your timing is still awful.”

A few hours later, though, when Cas is laying in bed curled around Dean under fresh-smelling sheets still warm from the dryer, he can’t help but remember how sometimes even the smallest action causes huge ripples. He thinks _big plans for that fish_ and he thinks about his keys left in his pocket last weekend and he thinks about everything that followed, and maybe he isn’t too upset with Saint Anthony, after all.

When Cas goes to the store the next morning, Sunday instead of Saturday, he doesn’t recognize all of the cashiers. The ones who know him, though, smile when they see him, and Teresa, who today is at register number three, calls out, “Oh, there you are! We missed you yesterday.” She doesn’t really know him, beyond his name and his shopping habits, but she sounds like she means it.

“I had to change my plans,” Cas says, smiling back. When he passes by with his cart, he whispers conspiratorially, “I had a date.” It’s nice, being able to say that, even if Dean won’t.

“Good for you!” she whispers in return, like they’re sharing a secret, but by the time Cas returns to the register with a full cart, all the cashiers are winking at him or giving him a thumbs-up. On his way out, he even gets a high-five from the guy who brings the carts back in from the parking lot.

It feels good. He feels good today.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They fit together, Cas thinks; not machine-perfect, but they fit.

They love each other in fits and starts. Dean kisses him gently, like light rain on dry ground, like he’s afraid of washing him away, and sometimes Cas wants to say, you have never been tender with me before, you have never done anything halfway, there is no need to start now. Be rough with me. It’s what I deserve.

Dean holds onto Cas like he holds onto his photographs, like something precious and fragile, something fading, something Dean is worried will eventually fall apart between his fingers. He’s looking at his photographs one morning when Cas shuffles down the hallway late morning, because they have a routine, now, and it’s strange, not seeing Dean when it’s already almost noon. Dean has his precious few pictures in his hands and when Cas mumbles, “Good morning, Dean,” he just kind of nods, like he didn’t really process what had been said. He doesn’t turn towards the door, he doesn’t look up from his hands.

“Do you want some breakfast?” Cas asks, even though it’s technically too late for breakfast, but he’s hungry and if he’s going to cook, he wants it to be something easy. Scrambled eggs and toast are easy, now. He can handle scrambled eggs and toast. Dean nods again, and Cas shuffles off to cook.

It occurs to him, sometime between whisking the eggs and tracking down the salt, that it must be November 2nd. He looks at his phone to be sure, because it’s hard to keep track of the date when it’s usually so irrelevant. This one, though, this one matters. He doesn’t need to look in his journal to remember why.

Dean wanders in when the eggs are halfway cooked, empty-handed, and sits staring at the table while Cas cooks. Cas says, “I’m making eggs and toast. I hope that’s all right.” Dean does not say anything. Cas doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this silence, this quiet, far-off version of Dean that he hasn’t met before.

He narrates his cooking, just for the sake of hearing someone talk, even if it’s himself. He comments on how well he thinks the eggs are turning out and how much better he’s gotten at cooking thanks to Dean. He contemplates the choice between square plates or round, grape jelly or strawberry jam. He announces he’ll clean up later, once they’re done eating. Dean doesn’t respond, but it’s okay.

Cas sets a plate (square) of eggs and toast (strawberry jam) in front of Dean and another in front of himself and he eats as he watches Dean watch his food get cold. Dean picks up his fork and pokes at the eggs and slides the toast around and doesn’t eat, and that’s okay, too. Cas doesn’t much feel like eating when he’s contemplating all he’s lost, either.

They spend the entire day like that, Dean just being there, in the bunker, present but not really, and Cas being there for him, talking to him and sitting with him and looking at him, even if Dean doesn’t say or do anything in return. A day of Cas saying _I’m here_ in any way he can without expecting anything in return.

“I’m going to go lay in bed and read a book, if you want to join me,” Cas says, when Dean starts looking tired. He gets up and goes to Dean’s room and Dean follows. He sits propped up against the headboard with his legs stretched out and his book held close to his face so he can read in the lamplight, and Dean lays down and throws an arm across Cas’ stomach and buries his face in Cas’ side.

Dean falls asleep like that, breathing steadily against Cas’ shirt. Cas sets his book down and picks up Dean’s photographs, then. He looks at Dean’s pictures and he is not in any of them, but the people who are, there is a common denominator, there is a connection there he can see. He thinks, maybe this hesitant tenderness is for Dean’s benefit as much as his.

When they wake the next morning, Cas cups Dean’s face, presses fingers softly to the skin of his neck. He can do this, he thinks. They can love each other slowly, seeping into one another bit by bit.

\--

They don’t talk about it at all that day, but when Cas asks if they can order pizza and Dean says, “Sure, whatever you want,” he feels like maybe he didn’t do so bad. Maybe he even did something right. Either way, he’s getting pizza.

The same young woman from before shows up. Their total is twenty-eight dollars and fifty-seven cents. She sighs as she says it.

Cas hands her three twenties. She stares at the money as if confused. “Uh,” she starts, like she isn’t sure how to ask if he made a mistake.

“Thank you,” Cas says. “I’m sorry about last time.”

She smiles at him, then, and says, “Yeah, me, too. Everybody has off days, right?”

“Off days,” he agrees. “Today is an ‘on’ day, now that there’s pizza.”

She laughs. He didn’t particularly mean to be funny. That happens, sometimes. It used to bother him, but he’s learning to accept it. “Definitely an ‘on’ day,” she says, and Cas returns her smile before she leaves.

“Made a new friend?” Dean asks, when Cas returns with the pizza. He’s smiling, like he likes the idea of Cas making friends.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

He feels his world open up just a little, like he’s growing into something different than before. It’s good, though, he thinks, this feeling like he’s expanding back out into the universe.

\--

Dean touches Cas like he touches the Impala. He runs his hands across Cas’ back and chest in the same way he caresses the dash, clings to Cas’ shoulders just like he grips the steering wheel, relaxes against Cas as though he’s leaning against the hood. Dean touches him and Cas thinks: adjust the mirrors, right turn, hit the brakes.

Dean loves the Impala, Cas knows. It has been his shelter, his home, one of the few constants in his life. It’s not so bad, to have Dean touch him like he touches that car.

He just wishes he felt more human, sometimes, is all.

He doesn’t know how to ask for what he wants. How do you say to someone: touch me like you’re trying to animate me. Touch me in every way that can’t be an analogy.

They’re sitting on the couch, Dean with his head on Cas’ shoulder, both quiet. Cas is pretending to watch the TV and feeling like the back seat of a car.

Dean leans up, awkwardly, to place a kiss to the side of Cas’ jaw. “You okay?” he asks, like he’s interested in the answer. But then again, Cas has heard him talk to the Impala before. It never answers him back. If something is wrong with her, Dean has to figure it out for himself.

Cas leans over in response, pushes himself up and over until he’s straddling Dean, his knees digging into the back of the couch, his hands on either side of Dean’s face. He leans in and kisses Dean, slowly, carefully, and when he rolls his hips forward experimentally, Dean gasps into his mouth, small and startled.

“Is this all right?” Cas asks. In the movies, it’s always clear. It’s always zero to a hundred, just like that, no time for questions. Intentions and consent always unambiguous. Their life is not like a movie, Cas knows; their life will never be like a movie. It isn’t clear. He doesn’t know. He has to ask.

Dean places his hands on Cas’ hips in response, tugs gently, encouraging him to repeat his earlier motion, and when he does, Dean breathes out a quiet, “Yeah.” It comes out in pieces, one syllable turned into four, stuttering like the engine does sometimes, before Dean fixes it.

Cas leans back in, starts up a rhythm. They fit together, Cas thinks; not machine-perfect, but they fit.

It’s quiet except for the sound of the TV still on in the background, of their increasingly ragged breathing. It’s unhurried and affectionate, like Cas thinks maybe their life could be, if they could learn how to let it.

He drinks in the details: the texture of Dean’s stubble under his thumbs, the shape of Dean’s teeth under his tongue, the feel of Dean’s hands under his shirt, sliding against his skin, catching on his spine. They’re in each other’s space, breathing the same air and managing not to suffocate. If there’s a comparison he could make, some mechanical analog for this experience, he can’t think of what it would be, he doesn’t want to know.

Cas slides one arm around Dean’s back, curls the fingers of his free hand around the back of Dean’s head, pulls himself even closer as his movements become more and more unsteady. He comes with his forehead pressed against Dean’s neck, Dean teasing at his ear with his teeth, Dean’s breath warm against the side of his face. Dean follows shortly after, arching up into him, fingertips digging into his shoulderblades.

They collapse sideways, after, Dean still pressed against the back of the couch, Cas tangled up with him so he doesn’t roll off the edge. Dean rests his chin against the top of Cas’ head as they both wait for their breathing to slow, their hearts to stop racing.

“Maybe it’s not all bad, having the place to ourselves,” Dean whispers into Cas’ hair, after a while, slow and hesitant like he’s ashamed to admit it.

Something burns in Cas’ throat. He makes a low sound in something like agreement. He holds on tight.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes a long time for Cas to recognize Dean’s prayers for what they are.

Dean talks to Sam like he’s negotiating a peace treaty, drawing new lines in the sand, creating new boundaries.

Upon further reflection, Cas supposes that’s exactly what they’re doing. He suspects Dean doesn’t know precisely how to handle this new relationship with Sam after so many years spent together on the road and in motel rooms and on hunts. There was the time where Sam was at Stanford, of course, and Cas gets the impression maybe those few years were something like Sam’s absence now, with Dean trying to live without him and not always succeeding. Or maybe it was worse, but Dean refuses to talk about it, so Cas doesn’t know.

They navigate their new relationship over the phone, building on it bit by bit, offering information a little at a time. Sam gives his address to Dean, eventually, trusts him enough not to burn the bunker down and show up on his doorstep, Cas supposes. In exchange, Dean tells Sam about him and Cas. Or tries to, when he thinks Cas isn’t listening. It comes out as “I think Cas and I are dating?” Cas is thinking it’s okay if Dean isn’t sure. He doesn’t feel very sure, sometimes, either. But then Sam says something Cas can’t hear, and he can tell, even looking at the back of Dean’s head, that Dean is rolling his eyes. “Okay, yeah, yeah, we’re dating. We’re practically married. Happy now? Jesus.” He says it in that way he has, the tone Cas has learned, the one where he says things he means as though he’s joking.

Cas walks all the way into the room to sit across from Dean while he finishes his conversation, and Dean looks surprised to see him there, like maybe he’s worried about what Cas did or didn’t hear. But Cas smiles at him across the table and Dean smiles back, even though he frowns when he hangs up.

Cas has a harder and harder time holding onto his memories of the whole history of the universe, these days, but even so, he knows there are an infinite number of ways to carry out a relationship. He tries to explain this to Dean, after another call where Sam dodges some of Dean’s questions, where he doesn’t invite him over. Cas tells Dean there are people who only see their loved ones every few months, or few years, or not at all. There were people who used to carry out relationships through handwritten letters sent so, so slowly across the country and now there are people who do the same thing instantaneously over the phone or through the internet. He says all of them are different and all of them are valid and it doesn’t mean you love the person any less.

Dean looks skeptical, which is to be expected, Cas supposes. “You’ve had over thirty years of a certain kind of normal,” Cas says. “It’s okay to have a hard time adjusting to change,” he says, and he smiles wryly, because he’s pretty sure he can say this for certain, now, from firsthand experience. “But maybe this can become your new normal.” He doesn’t say, maybe you can get used to this thing where Sam is still part of your life but not every single day of it. Cas takes Dean’s hand and squeezes.

“Maybe this can become my new normal,” Dean says. He’s looking away, but he squeezes back.

One day, they’ll declare an armistice. But not today.

\--

Cas starts wondering, eventually, when they’re going to get back to hunting.

It’s _when_ , he’s sure, not _if_ , even though he kind of wishes it were the latter. Even though he _really_ wishes it were the latter.

He wants to ask Dean what the plan is, what he envisions for their future utilizing the only skills either of them possesses. He spends weeks wondering how best to approach it, how to phrase his question precisely enough that he’ll be able to ascertain Dean’s feelings about hunting without making it sound like he, himself, actually wants to hunt. Which he doesn’t. He kind of wants to continue on with whatever this is, this life they’ve been living for the past year or so. He would kind of really like to keep on with it for the foreseeable future.

He spends so long thinking about it that Dean beats him to the punch.

“So I’ve been thinking,” Dean says, and Cas tenses immediately, thinks, this is it, the end of what has certainly been a vacation. Time to get back to reality, to saving people and hunting things and hopefully not dying in the process.

“Hm?” Cas says, because they might as well get this over with.

“Well,” Dean continues, “you know, Bobby is gone and Garth is a--Garth has a wife now, and probably a kid on the way or something. So I was thinking maybe we can uh. Do that. What Bobby did.”

Cas breaks into a grin. “That sounds like a great idea, Dean,” he says, because it does, it sounds a thousand times better than putting their lives on the line. It sounds like the perfect balance between helpful and selfish and oh, he _wants_ it.

“Awesome,” Dean says. “There’s this group of kids we helped out a while back, few young hunters determined to carry on the family business while going to high school, you know? Figure they could use all the help they can get.”

Cas’ expression alone must be enough encouragement, because Dean pulls his phone from his pocket and less than a minute later is saying, “Hey, Krissy? Yeah, it’s Dean.” Cas only gets Dean’s half of the conversation, but he chuckles as Dean offers to pretend to be various sorts of law enforcement, informing Krissy very seriously that he and Cas are “retired and bored and ready and willing to sound like Important Persons over the phone.”

“How did it go?” Cas asks, after, even though he knows the answer.

“She was so thrilled about how much easier this’ll make things that she completely forgot to make fun of me,” Dean says, smiling.

\--

Cas settles into his routine with the groceries, and he can handle that, going to the same store at the same time on the same day each week. He can handle it because he learns the route to get there and the layout of the aisles and the names and faces of the cashiers. They recognize him there and are patient with him regardless of whether he swipes a card or counts out exact change like sometimes the older folks in front of him in line do. He buys the groceries and Dean turns them into delicious meals and it’s a routine and it’s comfortable.

Today he’s in aisle 17, which has rows of freezers on both sides, and one side has breakfast foods and pastries and pies but the other has nothing but ice cream, ice cream in containers of all shapes and sizes, ice cream that can be scooped and ice cream bars and ice cream sandwiches, even more choices than in the cereal aisle, and for some reason this morning it’s okay. He has a routine and every time he comes here he can pick a different kind of ice cream until he tries them all, if he wants. Or he can pick more than one kind, because he can share with Dean. That’s something he’s willing to do. He buys a box of Nestle drumsticks and a container of lime sherbert.

Halfway back to the bunker, his car breaks down.

He’s annoyed because he understands how cars work but he’s not like Dean, who can divine what’s wrong by the sound or something. Some kind of benevolent sorcery, he imagines. He doesn’t have the right kind of knowledge for that. So he calls Dean and waits for him to drive out and fix whatever is wrong, and Dean spends a while fiddling with it while Cas gets progressively sweatier in just the way he hates, the kind that condenses on his scalp, making his hair damp.

Dean eventually decides they’re going to need to get it towed because it’s not something he can fix here on the side of the road with the limited tools he brought along, so they transfer the groceries into the Impala and drive back. By the time they haul everything inside, it hasn’t even been that long, really, but the ice cream has mostly melted.

Dean doesn’t seem terribly concerned about this, though. He explains that the chocolate coating on the drumsticks probably kept most of the ice cream from seeping out, and he tosses the box in the freezer, and then he grabs some spoons and some straws and gestures for Cas to follow him.

They sit outside the bunker, in the shade so they don’t get any sweatier, and they pass the sherbert container between them, scooping out the still frozen portions with their spoons first, then drinking the rest through their straws, like teenagers sharing a milkshake in some decades old romantic comedy, and Cas thinks, yeah, this is okay.

Still, the next time he’s at the store, he buys a couple of their insulated freezer bags. Better for the environment, anyway. Mostly, though, better for his ice cream.

\--

It takes a long time for Cas to recognize Dean’s prayers for what they are.

He used to be able to feel the words resonating, could picture Dean wherever he was, standing or kneeling with his face turned to the sky, toward the ceiling, always up, looking exposed and vulnerable. Now, though -- now Dean looks at the ground, usually, lets his words fall to the floor, and that’s why it takes Cas so long to figure it out.

They talk around things. Dean never asks Cas to stay, trying instead to divine his plans by other means, and Cas is impressed by this ingenuity as much as he’s saddened by it.

Dean will not ask him to stay, he knows. Dean will ask what Cas wants to do that weekend, that summer, for Christmas. He’ll say, _I was thinking, maybe we could go to the Grand Canyon for my birthday_ and wait for Cas’ response. Some days Cas can’t think that far ahead, some days he can’t even imagine getting dressed to go to the store. He realizes there’s something broken in him that Dean will never be able to fix. But Dean looks at him with the same reverence some people look at stained glass windows, examines his pieces as though he sees a picture there that Cas cannot see himself. Dean smiles, sometimes, when Cas kisses him, and when Cas asks what Dean expects of him, he says, _Nothing_. Dean asks Cas obliquely if he’s going to be there the next day, the next month, the next year, and he answers in the affirmative, always, and he means it, even on the days he can’t see farther than the present moment, even on the days his instincts are telling him to run.

They’re standing outside leaning on the railing one evening in late fall, looking at the stars, enjoying the last of the cool crisp weather before the real cold settles in.

“I was thinking,” Cas says, carefully. “Maybe we could watch Halley’s Comet together.”

“Sure,” Dean says absently, taking a sip of his beer. “When’s it come around next?”

Cas takes a deep breath, then, and says, “Approximately forty-seven years from today.” Casual, like he’s discussing their meal plan for the next week.

Dean stills, then, pauses with the bottle halfway to his lips. Cas can feel the shift from inattention to laser focus. He imagines he can see Dean thinking, like he could that first time. He wishes he had that certainty.

Dean closes his eyes, leans against the railing, breathing deep.

“Yeah,” Dean says, softly. “That’d be great, Cas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone for reading this and leaving such lovely comments. It means the world to me <3
> 
> Please, please listen to [the playlist for this fic](http://femmechester.tumblr.com/post/120882340307/) created by [Cecilia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/propinquitous), who I can never thank enough for all her help and encouragement. It's the absolute perfect mix of melancholy and hope and longing, with gorgeous cover art to boot.


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